TRAPPED IN DARK silence, time lost its form. The only markers of its passage for the young soldier became the gentle pressure of a cup to his chapped lips, which brought a trickle of water on his parched tongue, and the prick of a needle.
Sleep brought little rest and no comfort. The morphine numbed his physical pain, but the nightmares forced him to relive every terrifying second of his time on the Western Front.
He ached with exhaustion but dreaded the morphine injections. He fought back against the hands holding his arm, but his strength had not returned. He had no choice but to surrender to the needle and the nightmares. They were his penance, his punishment for all he had done and all he had failed to do. His deeds on the battlefield were etched in his mind and soul like epitaphs on tombstones. In sleep, he revisited them, carving their lines deeper.